


Not According to Plan

by KarlyAnne



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: First Kiss, Fluff, Fluff and Humor, Friends to Lovers, Gift Fic, Humor, M/M, One Shot, Romance, Silly
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-05-30
Updated: 2015-05-30
Packaged: 2018-04-01 23:26:01
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,916
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4038634
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/KarlyAnne/pseuds/KarlyAnne
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John is drugged. Sherlock is concerned.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Not According to Plan

**Author's Note:**

  * For [cwb](https://archiveofourown.org/users/cwb/gifts).



> Dear CWB, Happy writerbetaversary! Here is a short ridiculous piece to commemorate some of our exchanges. Fear not, this is not your Victorian birthday fic (luckily, I have a bit more time for that). I hope its ridiculousness makes you laugh, because a laughing Bee = happy OBEE.
> 
> Dear readers, I hope this might make you laugh as well. If it doesn't, go read CWB's stories. Actually, go read CWB’s stories either way.
> 
> Beta by PurpleHairedTree, who is magnificent.

 

John was lying on a neat hospital bed, IV line firm in place and an expression of otherworldly bliss on his face.

Sherlock was in the process of catching his breath and simultaneously assessing-deducing the situation before him.

Not two hours ago they parted ways somewhere in the imposing campus of one ancient university. Approximately an hour later Sherlock brought the disappointing case to its resolution, and ten minutes after that Lestrade tentatively relayed the news that John was found unconscious and was taken to hospital. Fifteen minutes thereafter, Sherlock was a whirlwind of demands and snarky remarks all the way into John’s room.

“John! John, are you all right?”

“Sherlock! Hey! Sherlock… You look… Pretty.”

“What..?”

John and Sherlock were momentarily suspended, staring at each other, John with a comical expression of besotted adoration, Sherlock with a look of utter horror.

Shouting commenced as soon as the brief moment of bewilderment passed.

“What is wrong with him? I demand answers!”

A moment later, a decidedly unimpressed doctor entered the room, manifestly ready for anything Sherlock might throw his way.

“He’s fine, Mr. Holmes. Just fine. John’s attacker used what he had on hand, which was a combination of morphine and midazolam. Not a very large dose, as such. He’s essentially experiencing the same confusion one might coming out of post-op anaesthesia. He should be fine in a matter of hours.”

“How accurate is this assessment? I am not inclined to trust the professional opinion of a compulsive game-show enthusiast with a mild fudge addiction.”

John stirred in his bed and made a happy squeak.

“You have nice legs, Sherlock.” John mumbled happily. “You know what you should wear? A kilt. Have you ever worn a kilt?”

Sherlock gave the doctor a scandalized expression.

“This is ludicrous! Are you quite certain there is no permanent brain damage?”

“I assure you, Mr Holmes, your partner is in no danger.” With a final nod, the doctor left the room.

Not in a state to dwell on the implications of the word “partner” here, Sherlock bravely approached John’s bed, looking apprehensively at the man who seemed to have dozed off again.

Not sure what to do with John’s disconcerting facial expression and their current predicament in its entirety, he opted for lightly touching John’s left shoulder.

John made a blubbering sound and his eyelids cracked open to peer at Sherlock.

“Did you get him, Sherlock?”

“John, please, we have more pressing matters than discussing that pitiful case. What are you doing? Stop crying! All right! I shall convey the details to you, just… compose yourself.”

“Was it professor Schnitzelduck?”

“Professor who?”

“Is that like Dr Who with tenure?”

“What are you on about?”

“Come on, Sherlock… Don’t tease… Who was it?”

“It wasn't professor Solbakk, it turned out to be some insignificant fellow at the business school.”

“The Penis School?”

“The BUSINESS school.”

“That makes more sense. Albeit not as interesting. Albeit… It’s a funny word, isn't it…”

John’s words slurred a bit at the end and his eyes closed once more.

Sherlock, whose fears were not entirely assuaged yet, grabbed John’s hand.

“John, how are you feeling? Does anything hurt? Did he hurt you?”

John slowly opened his eyes again, gazed woozily at their joint hands for a beat and reclaimed the same besotted expression he wore minutes earlier.

“Sit with me, Sherlock.”

“John, you need to listen to me. Are you hurt? Did he hurt you? Something the obviously incompetent doctors here missed?”

“I’ll tell you if you sit with me. No, not on the chair. Here.” John patted the tiny space available next to him.

Not in the mood to argue and in need of some clear answers, Sherlock squeezed himself somewhere south of John’s pillow and looked at him expectantly.

John sighed happily and buried his face between Sherlock’s thigh and the pillow.

Sherlock leaned down and said, a bit gentler this time, “John...?”

John mumbled something unintelligible and Sherlock gently nudged his face into a position more apt for verbal communication.

John hummed contently and leaned into the touch.

“I know that I always go on about the fridge and the flat and what not but I really do appreciate you,” mumbled John. “I have gobbets and gobbets of appreciation for you.”

“Gobbets..?”

“Yes. Buckets too. And troughs and stockpiles. And oceans.”

“I know John. I share the sentiment. Sleep now.”

“But I do Sherlock. I need you to know. I do. Because you’re mine. Aren't you?” With that, John closed his eyes for the remainder of this particular night, and slipped peacefully into slumber, wedged awkwardly between Sherlock and pillow.

 

As relief replaced the “John is hurt” instinctual response, novel insights assaulted Sherlock.

This familiarity, emotion, John was displaying was unnerving in a whole variety of ways.

The familiarity was especially unnerving due to the slow – yet steady and promising – morphing of their relationship into something new and intriguing and oh-so-desired. This process Sherlock recognized for what it was with cautious optimism some three months prior, and was very keen to see through.

There wasn't anything substantially clear-cut to call it certain, but there were looks, a sense of intimacy and most importantly – there was no one else anymore. It was the two of them in what Sherlock came to recognize as their very own version of the only home he ever knew in his adult life.

This night. This night of routine action, of a brief scare, of crossing lines.

There was nothing to support the notion John will not remember it vividly when he is once more in full possession of his faculties.

 

This was not according to plan.

 

Two hours later Sherlock was allowed to manhandle a drowsy John into a cab, to take him home so he can recuperate in his own bed.

The next morning (or rather, afternoon) was neither here nor there.

John – a doctor, soldier and British through and through – had a remarkable capacity for keeping up appearances. Sherlock, for all his powers of observation and deduction couldn't ascertain whether John had no recollection of the previous night or was just saving face.

There was no perceptible tension that evening, but it only made Sherlock feel more on edge. Did John not remember? Did he remember and deemed it so insignificant to even consider fretting about? Maybe it would make an amusing dinner-party story one day in the future, John telling it with a clean plate, full belly and his arm around his bird-of-the-month? But there hasn’t been any bird-of-the-month. Not for months now.

Sherlock was attempting a casual recumbence on the couch when John closed his book an hour later and announced he’s going to bed.

“Get some sleep, yeah? Case is done, Sherlock, time to recharge a bit.”

Sherlock supplied some automatic humming as response and squinted at nothing in particular on the wall opposite from where he was lying.

John stood there for a few moments more and made to move towards the stairs. Stopped again, then delivered over his shoulder:

“Thank you, Sherlock. Last night was… Well, it was rather dreadful, really. Was never much for substance abuse, the loss of control is quite… quite unnerving. Thanks for staying with me. It made the whole thing much less unpleasant. So just… thank you.” And with that he marched up the stairs with purpose and disappeared into his room.

 

About five hours into the night, Sherlock, who stayed very much in the same position since John’s hesitant gratitude, heard John shuffle in his room.

Shortly after, his bedroom door opened, followed by sleepy footfalls on the steps.

John made for the bathroom but stopped when he saw the still, shadowy figure on the couch.

“Sherlock?”

“Indeed, John. Why are you up? Are you feeling ill?”

“No, just wanted the loo. And something to drink, comes to think about it. Got most of my fluids IV and slept quite a lot the past 24 hours, throat’s still a bit dry.”

“Go to the bathroom, John. I’ll switch the kettle on for you.”

“Ta.”

Sherlock had precisely 2 minutes and 43 seconds from the moment John entered the bathroom until his sleep-rumpled image appeared again. John went through the motions of making two cups of tea and setting both on the kitchen table.

During these 163 seconds Sherlock did… nothing. Nothing other than flicking the kettle on, then sitting at the table. But these were acts executed on procedural memory alone. No higher brain functions were operating in any way that could be considered useful to his current dilemma.

John sat across from him and sipped his tea in silence.

Just as Sherlock was contemplating breaking the silence – that was only uncomfortable to him, he was certain – John spoke.

“Why are you up, Sherlock?”

The tedious topic wasn't quite what he had in mind, but he decided it was a huge improvement to the silence.

“I was... Thinking.”

“If this was a valid reason you’d be up continually, 24 hours a day, 7 days a week, year round.”

“If only the world was that perfect.”

“Sherlock…”

“I couldn't sleep.”

“Why not?”

“Had some… things to consider. Some… new information.”

“About this case?”

“No.”

“Another case?”

“Not a case, John.”

“What, then?”

 

Sherlock realized many years ago that life-changing moments, moments of enormous magnitude, don’t always have the appropriate scenery. Sometimes they can be an epic rooftop mental duel, yes. But sometimes they can be at a lab at St Barts. Other times they may be at his kitchen table.

 

“You said things. When you were drugged. You talked, quite candidly. I’m not sure if you meant what you said, or what it means if you did. But I can’t seem to stop thinking about it. So perhaps it would be beneficial if you could clarify, if you remember, that is…”

“I meant what I said, Sherlock.”

“All of it…?”

“The kilt bit?”

“You said I was yours.”

John took a deep breath, let it out and licked his lips. Flexed both hands and put them on the table between Sherlock and himself.

“I don’t think this statement is for me to make at this point, but I was hoping that perhaps…”

“I am. Yours. I thought I’d say. In case missing data is the problematic component here.”

“Eh… Right. Yes. Good. Mine, as in…?”

“Emotionally. Romantically. Sexually, potentially.”

“Right. Good. That’s… Good. Yes. That, me, too.”

They stayed there staring at each other for a few moments, before Sherlock spoke again.

“I would imagine you know quite well this is entirely not my area, so unless you would take some action fitting of this occasion, there is a very concrete chance they will find our bodies in this very same position sometime after we perish of dehydration.”

John was shaken out of his awkwardness by the familiar tone. He stood up, walked around the table and faced Sherlock. He smiled at him, leaned down and kissed the tip of his nose.

“We were always getting here, weren't we?”

“I should like to hope so. Although I find myself not caring much for other scenarios at this moment.”

“Funny how a night that began so dreadfully developed so positively.”

“I would have to agree, once it was clear you were in no danger your rattling was quite entertaining,” said Sherlock, standing up.

“Prat. I wasn't rattling. You really would look good in a kilt.”

Then John leaned up, closing the gap between his mouth and Sherlock’s.


End file.
